


Sometimes Our Happiness is Captured (Somehow, Our Time and Place Stand Still)

by palaces_out_of_paragraphs



Category: The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Because it’s a crime and crying shame we never saw these two on vacation, F/M, Fluff, Kissing, Light Angst, Married Couple, Romance, westallen - Freeform, you’re lying if you say Barry doesn’t always want to whisk Iris away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:14:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26536381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palaces_out_of_paragraphs/pseuds/palaces_out_of_paragraphs
Summary: With great power comes great responsibility.And also some unexpected perks, like never having to pay for airline tickets.(Which comes in handy because, sometimes, they’re just desperate and determined to run away, to go somewhere where it’s just him and her and they’re not The Flash, they’re just Barry and Iris - just two people in love.)Or: Five times Barry uses his speed to sweep Iris halfway around the world for a date, and one time he doesn’t.
Relationships: Barry Allen & Iris West, Barry Allen/Iris West
Comments: 10
Kudos: 742





	Sometimes Our Happiness is Captured (Somehow, Our Time and Place Stand Still)

01.

“You said we were going on a picnic for our lunch break.”

“We _are_ on a picnic.”

“I think you left some details out, Bear.”

When Barry’d suggested they have a picnic and he’d sped her away, Iris had been expecting the park a block from the police department, the one with the planted golden marigolds and the monkey-bars with peeling yellow paint both her and Barry had swung on when they were very young, but instead Iris finds herself standing somewhere...decidedly not there.

Because she’s pretty sure no park in Central City has sprawling sunflower fields and rolling hills and villas silhouetted by a sinking summer sun, and as she takes in the surroundings, Iris murmurs, “Italy.”

“Tuscany,” Barry confirms. 

“We’re supposed to be back in forty minutes.”

“Didn’t you tell them you were going to work on your article from home?” Barry asks, and she feels a wine glass being pressed into her hands.

“What about my dad?”

“We’ll bring him back a gelato.”

A laugh escapes Iris’ lips, and then Barry’s hands are skimming her sides and he’s gripping her waist and pulling her down on the blanket beside him. And he’s smiling that special way he only does with her, all broad and unstoppable, like his heart’s so full of love it can’t help but spill over onto his face.

(Iris loves that smile. She’s seen it so many times and for so many years. He’s been smiling like that at her for her entire _life_ , she thinks, and yet she can still feel her breath catch in her chest whenever he does.)

And Barry opens the picnic basket and Iris thinks about the seven hour time difference between Central City and Tuscany, thinks about how it’s noon back home, but evening here, and it suddenly strikes her that she’s living through seven pm, and that when she goes home she’ll live through seven pm back there too.

Two seven o’clocks on the exact same evening.

It feels a bit like cheating, or stealing, like she’s stretching her day out longer, racing against the sunlight and beating the odds, and something inside of Iris grabs at this thought, holds onto it tight, because the thing is, she’s learned not to ever think lightly of time.

Because it seems like time is always taunting her. She has spent nine months waiting for her best friend to wake up. She has stood in the middle of the street and watched the love of her life leave and dealt with him missing for what felt like an eternity. And she knows what it’s like to die five hundred thousand times in the span of a moment when Barry’s in danger and she thinks the world’s going to make her lose him all over again.

And the thing is, she’s had an entire lifetime full of Barry Allen, but it’s still not enough - will never be enough - and she wants to start stealing these snatches of time, start grasping at seconds before they slip away.

So Iris pushes aside thoughts of nine-to-five jobs schedules and lunch breaks and everything back home, and kisses Barry instead.

His mouth is soft and open against hers and he smells like summer wind and she can taste his red wine stained lips and feel the heat from his sun-warmed hands sinking through the silk of her blouse. And as she leans up into him and he melts down against her and the Italian sunset blazes red and gold above them, Iris thinks that this, _this_ moment right here is hers, and she’s making it last for as long as she can.

(It’s two-fifteen when Joe notices Iris emerge from Barry’s lab that had been entirely empty not a moment before, and her hair’s blown back and she’s carrying her high heels in her hands and she’s saying something about the same hours being relived, like tv episodes being rerun.

And then Barry hands Joe a gelato.

“Cioccolato fondente,” Barry says.

Joe, very pointedly, does not ask.)

❦

02.

Iris sees grey slabs beneath her feet, stretching out as far as her eyes can see, and then she realizes that though she’s standing on stones, she’s not on the ground: she’s somewhere high up above the rest of the world.

Iris whirls around excitedly, “We’re at the Great Wall of China?”

“ _On_ the Great Wall,” Barry corrects her, smiling at the way she’s shaking his arm in excitement. “Figured you wouldn’t mind skipping the steps.”

“Visiting the Great Wall was on my - “

“- eighth grade bucket list, I know.”

Iris laughs, wraps her arm around him, “You remembered. How’d you do that?”

“Because it’s _you_ ,” he says, and the look on his face and the way he says it is so open and honest and raw. “I remember everything about you.”

And the thing is, she remembers everything about him too. Remembers the exact project he made for his first science fair in fifth grade, remembers his locker combination and his favorite constellation, can recite all his favorite movie lines and recall all the different times she’s ever seen him cry. She’s spent years filing all these things away in the back of her mind, like she’s got some sort of field guide to Knowing Barry Allen, because it’s _him_ , and she’s been loving him right from the moment they met.

And that’s why she’s able to say, “Tunisia next date night?”

Barry blinks in surprise, like he’d forgotten all about it, like Iris had held on tight to a memory that had slipped his own mind, but then he smiles, big and bright, and he says, “You remembered.”

(She remembers him saying he’d wanted to visit Tunisia, because it was where some scenes on Tatooine were filmed. She cannot remember, exactly, which trilogy it was in, but it’s with sharp, utter clarity that Iris remembers being thirteen and lying awake at three in the morning, staring up at neon green glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling, while Barry lay on his back beside her and talked excitedly about Tunisia and twin sunsets, his voice wondrous and hushed all at once, so as not to wake Joe. And Iris may never have been a fan of Star Wars, but she’s always been a fan of Barry Allen, and things that made him happy had a habit of forever sticking in her memory.)

“You’re not the only one who remembers things,” she says. 

And as she leans into his side and his arm comes around her, she thinks this moment right here is going to be etched into her memory too.

❦

03.

Iris’ head is resting against the crook of Barry’s neck as she leans back against his chest, listening to the steady way he breathes. And sometimes that’s all she needs, is to feel the rhythm of his inhales and the tempo of his heartbeat, to know that he is there, solid and steady and stationed beside her, not running off into danger.

(Iris is proud of what he does as The Flash - proud of what _they_ do as The Flash - but sometimes she just wants to grab him and _hold on,_ hold onto him and keep him safe from all the threats, and the life and death choices, just hold him in her arms away from all harm and just _be._ )

“You okay?” Barry asks, and it’s almost unsettling how he does that, how he can tell there’s something on her mind without her saying a word or him seeing her face. “You’re not upset about date night, are you?” 

Iris’ gaze flickers toward the window, out at the cold dark sky and icy white sleet, the reason they had to cancel their restaurant reservation on date night. 

Iris shakes her head _no_ and shifts against him, shamelessly using him as her own personal heater, “I just wish we were someplace sunny.” 

And then Barry breathes out a laugh, leans his head down, and Iris can feel the heat of his breath on the back of her neck and his mouth moving against her ear, as he says, “ _Okay_.” 

His hand slides to her side, so she leans into the gentle pressure of his fingers as they curl in against her, and she thinks maybe he’s going to kiss her, so she closes her eyes and clutches him closer, but then instead of his lips, she feels a swift breeze, and when she opens her eyes, she finds herself standing on a beach. 

She’s momentarily stunned. She’d inhaled in Central City and now she’s exhaling in the Caribbean. And it’s as dazzling as it is terribly disorienting to suddenly find your living room carpet replaced with tan pale sand and warm turquoise water. 

“Barry,” Iris says, half laughing, half scolding, swatting his arm. “ _Barry_ , you can’t just - “ 

“You _said_ you wished we were someplace sunny,” he reminds her, sounding just a bit too smug, and she’s about to swat him again, but then he smiles at her, so happy and wide and in love. 

And it’s ridiculous. He’s ridiculous. The _whole thing’s_ ridiculous, because twenty-eight seconds ago Iris was on a couch in Central City and now she’s in the Caribbean. And who _does_ that? 

(Well, aside from them, apparently.) 

She’s thinking that maybe she needs to have a talk with him about taking things she says literally, and then she’s wondering if there’s any international passport laws they’re breaking, but then Barry’s hands are unzipping her sweater and he’s slipping it off her shoulders to reveal her tank top underneath. And there’s soft sand beneath her feet and the rhythm of gently lapping waves against the shore and sunshine bathing her skin in warmth and she finds it hard to come up with any convincing argument about why they shouldn’t be there. 

Barry hums, leans his head down, presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth, “I could always speed us back.” 

“Don’t you dare,” she says, and turns her head to kiss him properly. 

❦

04.

When he speeds her to Central Park in New York for their date, it’s raining.

The rain is light, dusting the streetlights and getting caught in their glow, and Iris and Barry both blink up at the blue-grey sky in surprise.

But rainy Central Park is still very much alive, and Iris can see a sea of black umbrellas bobbing down the sidewalk, and hear the cacophony melody of distant cabs and chatter. And across from them, the vintage covered carousel is still turning, the pretty horses spinning, it’s lights twinkling and reflecting off the rain, sending bursts of golden light gleaming all the way across the pavement to the spot right where they stand.

“Should’ve checked the weather first, sorry,” Barry says sheepishly. “Got excited about New York and didn’t think to look.”

(If Iris knows him - and she _does_ \- she figures he was probably thinking about running up the side of the Empire State Building, just to be like King Kong. 

She’d said, once upon a time, that he was the cutest nerd she knew.

Her stand on that has only intensified since then.)

“I could speed us someplace else,” Barry offers. 

“Maybe in a minute,” Iris murmurs.

Tiny raindrops are settling in her hair like diamonds, and Iris can see them beading on Barry’s long, brown eyelashes and gliding down the line of his jaw, and Iris runs her hand up over the collar of his coat, fingers slipping under it, curving around the back of his neck.

And when she stands up on her tiptoes and stretches up to kiss him, she feels his hand trail down her back to the spot at the arch of her spine, right where his palm fits perfectly, and then he pulls her in, like he’s anchoring her to him. And the air is crisp and the rain is cool, but Barry is ever so warm, and his other hand is tangling in her hair as he’s cradling her head and tilting it back, and Iris can taste the rain on him and feel the way it’s soaking into their skin, but she finds she really doesn’t mind.

Because the thing about New York is: it’s something special, even in the rain. 

(And the thing about being with Barry is: it’s something special, even in the rain.)

❦

05.

They reach Paris one evening where the Eiffel Tower sparkles silver against a sky of fading lavender, and cherry blossom petals float in the air, dancing in the breeze and catching in Iris’ hair. 

They stop in the street, under one of the trees, and Barry laughs lightly, brings his hand up to brush the delicate, pale pink petals out of her strands of dark curls. 

She’s supposed to be writing an article. He’s supposed to be turning in a report.

They’re stealing a moment to listen to a violinist on a Parisian street instead.

“ _Five minutes,”_ she’d told Barry earlier. “ _We’ll only have five minutes in Paris.”_

“ _A lot can happen in five minutes,_ ” he’d said.

(And he wasn’t lying, because when they’re in flash time, Iris knows five minutes can feel like five hours, an eternity shrunk into the span of a single second, with the rest of the world frozen around them.

Or maybe that’s just what being with Barry feels like in general.)

And now Iris brings her hand to his face, gently tracing the constellation of freckles across the curve of his cheekbones, and beneath the pads of her fingers, she feels his smile spread.

Iris wants to keep careful mental notes of him right then, carve them in gold in her memory: the slow, easy way he smiles, like the first tendrils of sunshine gently touching the sky, or like deep golden honey, slowly spilling out of a jar; and the way the expression in his eyes looks so incredibly soft and nearly lost as he stares at her, like he’s so in love that the entire world has become blurred except her.

And then she feels his hands on her, his touch so familiarly intimate and infinitely tender it almost aches, and he pulls her body closer, and she finds a safe haven in his arms.

(He’s always been her safe haven.

He always will be.)

“Happy anniversary, Barry Allen,” she says.

“Happy anniversary, Iris West-Allen,” he replies, right before he leans down to kiss her.

And around them, the cherry blossoms keep falling.

❦

\+ 01

They were supposed to be on a date somewhere far away, away from the lab and the bright lights of the city and everything that kept them apart. But then Barry had gotten an alert, because a meta was terrorizing the city on their date night. (Because of _course_ they were, what else would a nefarious meta _possibly_ be doing on a fine Friday evening besides committing a crime?) 

The fight that ensued was longer than expected, tougher, the punches thrown just a bit harder, and by the time Barry and Iris get back home, she can feel the weariness that’s settling into his bones.

But that doesn’t stop him from saying, “We could still make date night.”

Iris stops, stares at his tired form, “Babe, no.”

“We could still go somewhere,” he insists, almost like he’s pleading with her. “The Grand Canyon,” he offers. “Cancun. Cairo.”

(And he’s tired, so tired but undeterred, because he knows that this was supposed to be _their_ night, and she has a feeling that he too is trying to keep stealing every single second of time together that he can.)

“ _Barry_ \- ” 

“But it’s date night,” he says, right like she already knew he would. “ _Our_ night.”

(She knows him. She knows him so well. She can see the exhaustion in his eyes and the tired way he holds his body up, but she can also see the way he’s looking at her, determined and nearly desperate and ready to run away, somewhere where it’s just him and her and they’re not The Flash, they’re just Barry and Iris - just two people in love.)

Iris tugs at his arm and he lets her pull him down to the couch, and he automatically shifts to the side when he sits, letting her settle in against him. And after she does, Iris brings her hands up to his face, her thumbs softly skimming over the edges of his cheekbones as she tilts his head forward til his forehead is resting against hers.

“I don’t need Cancun,” she says. “I don’t need beaches or the Seine, or Seoul in the rain, I just need _you_.”

Barry pulls back just far enough away so her face can come into focus, and he stares at her for a second, eyes roaming over her, like he wants to take her all in, and the look on his face is soft, almost awestruck, lined with adoration and lit up with devotion.

And then he’s cupping her face and crushing his mouth to hers, and it’s both soft and hard, both needy and urgent, like he _has_ to kiss her right then, has to physically show her exactly how he feels because all the words have failed him. But it’s also like he’s slowing down to do it, trying to draw it out and make the moment last, fill it with as much affection and closeness as he can and make sure she understands the sheer depth of his love.

(And Iris does understand; she perfectly understands the unbridled, infinite depth of it and the way it’s unending and unconditional, unwavering and all-encompassing.

She loves him exactly the same way.)

Barry’s lips leave hers, but he doesn’t move away, instead he stays close, pressing his forehead against her temple and shutting his eyes.

“I love you,” he breathes.

And as Iris threads her fingers through the dark locks of his hair, she says:

“Love you too, Bear.”

And she holds onto him and onto the moment for as long as she can.

**Author's Note:**

> You can’t tell me that Certified Romantic™️ Barry “I literally sang a love song to my soulmate like some sort of Disney Prince” Allen would not want to sweep Iris off whenever he could. 
> 
> I’m pretty new to both the Westallen fandom and writing fanfic, and I hadn’t expected to get any comments at all let alone kudos, but the WA fans here has been so nice and welcoming, so tysm guys, y’all cool. Hope you enjoyed my 3rd WA fic enough to leave it some kudos too. ❤️ And if you want to see me gif westallen scenes and mutter things like, “Good grief you guys, please control your heart eyes,” come find me on Twitter (@irisbestallen) or Tumblr (iris-west-allens.tumblr.com).


End file.
